


Art of Negative Spaces

by dracusfyre



Series: Tony Stark Bingo Challenge [24]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-09-17 02:22:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16965915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracusfyre/pseuds/dracusfyre
Summary: Steve gets the commission of a lifetime when Tony Stark contacts him to paint his portrait.  But as Steve gets to know Tony, he gets the feeling that not everything in Tony's life is what it seems.This is my final fill for the 2018 Tony Stark Bingo!  This fills Square T1: Artist/Muse AU





	1. Chapter 1

“Really? Me? Tony Stark picked _me?_ ” Steve said incredulously into the phone, coming to a stop in the middle of the street and earning a curse from the pedestrian behind him. “Why?”

“I’m sure you can understand why I didn’t ask that particular question,” Peggy said dryly, her crisp British accent adding an extra edge to her words.  “Instead I focused on such trivial matters as how many portraits he wanted and when he wanted you to get started.”

“And how much I’m getting paid?”

“Naturally. The answers are two, as soon as possible, and, well, let’s just say you’re not going to have to worry about making rent for the rest of the year.”

“Holy shit.” Steve started walking again, trying and mostly failing to suppress a thrill of excitement at the news.  _It could still fall through,_ he told himself.  Most things that seemed too good to be true usually were.  “Ok, so what do I do now?”

“His assistant requested that you show up for a consultation tomorrow at 10 am.  I’ll text you the address.  And make sure you’re on your best behavior, Steven Grant Rogers.”

Steve winced.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, jogging across the street right as the light changed. “It was just that one time and I made it up to you-”

“ _One_ time-!”

“And it won’t happen this time,” Steve promised. “I’m older and more mature.” _And more broke,_ he added silently.  He’d had a steady stream of commissions right out of art school, enough to pay the bills as long as he also worked a couple of shifts at the local coffee shop, until he lost his temper with Alexander Pierce. The commissions had slowed to a trickle since then and he had just started looking for a second job.  “Unless I catch him actively committing a crime I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

“Well, I know you’ll _try."_ Steve could hear the smile in Peggy's voice.  "Congratulations, Steve, I think this will be the end of your dry spell.”

“Thanks, Peggy." Steve hung up and tapped his phone thoughtfully against his palm as walked.  He didn’t know much about Tony Stark other than what he gleaned from reading the headlines on newspapers as he walked by the bodegas; lately the big news was that his parents had died and he stood to inherit the family business, which made everything from weapons to consumer electronics.  He also had the vague sense that there had been a lot of scandals about him back in the day, but he had no real idea what they might have been.   As he dug the keys to his building out of his pocket, he considered googling it before deciding that it would be smarter to get his first impressions from the man himself.  As he’d found with Pierce, sometimes what people said about a person could be vastly different from reality.

 

The next morning at 9:55, Steve walked briskly up to the receptionist, maneuvering his portfolio case around the steady stream of commuters as they badged in past security.  “My name is Steve Rogers, I have an appointment with Tony Stark at 10 am?”

“Yes, of course,” the man behind the desk said with a bright, polite smile. “Can I see your ID?” Steve handed over his ID card and waited patiently while the man input his information into the computer before handing it back.  “Take the elevator on the far left.  Jarvis will take you to Mr. Stark.”

“Thanks,” Steve said, deciding not ask who Jarvis was, hoping that it would be obvious once he got into the elevator.  As he walked up the doors opened but no one was inside.  As the doors closed behind him, he also realized that there were no buttons on the inside. “Uh…”

“Welcome to Stark Tower, Mr. Rogers,” a smooth British voice said from over the speakers as the elevator started moving.  “I am Jarvis, Mr. Stark’s personal AI assistant.”

“Oh. Hello,” Steve said, looking around and finding the camera in the corner of the elevator.

“Mr. Stark is currently in his laboratory.  He has instructed me to bring you to him.”

That would explain why the elevator was going down instead of up to the penthouse level, as Steve had expected.  “Thank you,” Steve said.

“You’re welcome,” Jarvis said as the elevator doors opened with a soft chime.  

Steve wasn't sure what he was expecting - if pressed, he would have said something sterile and modern, full of busy machines and sleek steel - but what he saw when he stepped out was closer to organized chaos.  One side had cars in various states of disassembly, the other with tables covered in tools and various machines whose purpose Steve couldn't even guess at

“One moment!” A voice called out, then a young man wearing saggy jeans and an Iron Maiden shirt rolled out from under one of the fancy cars.  As he grabbed a rag and started wiping off his hands, Steve was surprised to see that Tony Stark wasn’t much older than he was; for some reason he had been picturing someone in his 40s. 

When Mr. Stark saw Steve he looked equally surprised, his hands stilling and eyes widening, making Steve feel a little self-conscious. He quelled the urge to run a hand over his hair and held it out instead.  “Hello, I’m Steve Rogers.  We had an appointment today?” Despite his best efforts, the sentence became a question as Mr. Stark kept staring at him.

“Hi,” Mr. Stark said belatedly, tucking the rag into his pocket as he took Steve’s hand and shook it briefly.  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe someone who looked like they live in the Village. You know, purple hair and piercings or something,” Mr. Stark said.  He turned and gestured for Steve to follow him.

Steve looked down at his khakis and polo.  He’d picked the most boring, grown-up outfit he could find in his closet, so he wasn’t sure if he was more relieved or more offended that Mr. Stark thought it was boring, too.  “I'm sorry, I’ll try to look more like an artist next time,” Steve said before he could think about it, wincing as he heard the words coming out of his mouth.

But instead of getting offended, Mr. Stark barked out a laugh.  “So Pepper explained the scope of the project?” He asked as he started clearing off a space on one of his worktables.

“A little. I was told you wanted two portraits,” Steve said as he set his portfolio down and started to pull out prints of his former commissions. "But she didn't say much more than that."

“Yeah, I want one for the office and one for my house.” Mr. Stark dragged up a couple of metal stools as Steve set out the prints.  He rifled through the stack and pulled one out.  “This is why I asked for you, because of this painting.”

Steve started to make a face before he managed to school his expression.  Mr. Stark had picked out the portrait of Alexander Pierce, the one that had pissed the man off so much.  On the surface, it was a perfectly staid portrait, but when you looked closer you could see the faint sneer on the man’s mouth and the cruelty around his eyes, and what looked like a paisley pattern on the man’s tie was actually blood spatter.  “I, um, was under the impression that this painting had been destroyed.”

“No, Pierce pulls it out sometimes at house parties to talk shit about the ‘snotty, entitled social justice warrior’ that painted it,” Mr. Stark said with amusement, rolling his eyes and tapping the print against the table.  “It usually segues from there into a ‘kids these days’ rant with a side of ‘the world would go to shit without men like me.’” 

Steve aggressively bit his tongue and clenched his hands on the edge of the work table, trying to keep his temper as Mr. Stark set the print down and started leafing through the others.  “And that glowing endorsement made you want to meet me?” Steve managed after a while, even though his chest was still tight with rage.  He concentrated on breathing, trying not to trigger a stress asthma attack.

“Well, yeah.  Anyone who could make Pierce that angry is someone I wanted to know.  So I started looking at your other work and I really liked it.”  Mr. Stark met his eyes, and Steve was surprised by how warm and open they were, free from mockery or derision.  The pressure in his chest eased.  “I like the honesty in your pictures,” Mr. Stark added.

“Really?” Steve said with surprise.

“Yeah.” Mr. Stark spun from side to side on the metal stool, stacking the prints up neatly. “I’m no art major, but isn’t that one of the things art is meant to do? Showing something true that most people miss?”

“Some art, yeah,” Steve said, caught a little off guard.  He’d tried not to come here with any expectations but clearly he had failed, given how thoroughly Mr. Stark was surprising him. “But that’s not what people are usually looking for in portraits.”

“Well, I’m not going to lie, I am kind of hoping for a truly bad-ass picture that will make Pierce go incoherent with rage when he sees it.” Mr. Stark spun all the way around on his stool, clearly pleased by the thought.  He kicked out a leg and caught himself on the table so that he faced Steve.  “But as long as you don't paint me naked or something, you’ll get paid either way, I promise.”

“If you want that kind of composition, it will take longer,” Steve warned.  “I’ll need to spend some time with you and sketch out some proposals before I can even start painting. It would be easier if you gave me  a photo or something to paint from.”

Mr. Stark shrugged.  “I would say that I will be on my best behavior, but I’m sure that’s what Pierce tried to do and it bit him in the ass.”

“If that was his _best_ behavior-” Steve started, then cut himself off when he remembered Peggy’s warning.  From the laughter making Mr. Stark’s whiskey-brown eyes dance, he had an idea what Steve was going to say but he didn’t call him out on it.  “I’m sure there won’t be a problem,” he said instead, forcing a polite smile. 

 

Right as he walked in the door of his studio apartment, Steve’s phone started to ring.  “I just got home,” Steve said instead of saying hello when he saw who it was.  “How did you know?”

“I have my ways," Peggy said.  "How did it go?”

“Very well.  I start tomorrow.  Also, it turns out that Mr. Stark hired me _because_ of Pierce,” Steve said, feeling vindicated.  “So there.   You can’t hold that over my head anymore.”

“Try and stop me.  Have you looked at your bank account yet?”

“No.” Steve put her on speaker phone and logged into the app for his bank. “Holy shit!” He fell backwards onto his couch, staring at the six figures on the screen.  “He paid me up front?”

“That’s just the retainer,” Peggy said with poorly concealed delight. “ _After_ my cut. So don’t fuck this up.”

“Right,” Steve said faintly, but she had already hung up.  Steve spent a long time staring off into space, realizing that he was probably in some kind of shock, before he finally roused himself to make a cup of tea, a ritual he had picked up from Peggy.  His mind kept circling around the money in his bank accountl like poking at a sore tooth, and each time he would force himself to think about something else.  As he sat on the couch with the mug of steaming Earl Grey, he realized he was superstitiously afraid that as soon as he got excited about it, the money would disappear.   _That’s dumb_ , he told himself, but even as he scolded himself for being silly he knew he wasn’t going to spend a penny of it until Mr. Stark’s paintings were done.  Just in case.

 

“Good, you made it,” Mr. Stark said cheerfully when Steve was ushered to his office the next day.

“Made it?” Steve echoed.   He had woken up this morning to see an email from Mr. Stark politely requesting his presence at the tower at 11:30, and it was 11:28 now.  “Was it optional?”

“Well, yeah,” Mr. Stark said in surprise, looking up from his computer. “I assumed you had other projects that you were working on right now.”

“Not at the moment, no,” Steve said, smothering a hysterical laugh.  He hadn’t had a commission on this scale in eight months  _and_ he was getting paid six figures for two paintings, and Mr. Stark thought he might have competing priorities? He imagined telling _Tony Stark_ that he couldn’t make it today because he had to work a shift at the coffee shop, and had to cough to cover the strangled sound he almost made. 

“Good.  Have you had lunch yet?”  Mr. Stark stood and threw his suit jacket over his shoulders.

"No," Steve said, following Tony to the elevators. Technically cramming a croissant into his face right before getting on the train would be closer to brunch.

“You know, I probably spent way too long thinking about where to go for lunch today,” Mr. Stark commented as they crossed the lobby.  “Probably more thought than I’ve put into most of my dates. Would it look like I was trying too hard if I took you someplace expensive?  Would it be disrespectful if we didn’t?”

“Why?”  Then Steve remembered what Mr. Stark had said yesterday about being on his best behavior and laughed.  “Oh.  Well, what did you decide?”

“To take you somewhere I liked,” Mr. Stark said. He stopped in front of a restaurant that didn't seem particularly distinctive to Steve's eyes and opened the door wide, gesturing for Steve to go inside. "Best Mexican food in Midtown."

As he studied the menu and placed their order, Steve made a mental note to pick up some Tums for the inevitable heart burn, envious as ever of people who could eat what they wanted without consequences. "Mr. Stark-”

“Tony, please,” he said.  When Steve didn't answer immediately, wondering to himself if he could really call the richest man on the East Coast _Tony_ , Mr. Stark looked up and said quietly, “I don’t feel like ‘Mr. Stark’ yet,” with a shadowed look in his eye.

Right. His parents had died recently.  “Tony,” Steve amended.  “Do you have any ideas for how you want the portraits to look?  What elements you want me to include? A preferred setting?”

"Good question," Tony said, scratching his jaw.  "This whole project was my assistant's idea, so other than picking out my artist I hadn't thought about it much." They sat in silence for a moment, Tony's eyes far away as their food arrived and they started eating.  “Well,” he said finally, “all the other portraits at the office have that giant desk from my office with them, so I guess that’s fine.  No reason to piss off the board members any more than I already have, right?”  Steve shrugged at the question as he stared down his overstuffed burrito, wondering if he was going to be able to eat it without making a giant mess.  “As for the other one, since it’s for the family home I guess the setting should be some room in the house?”

There was an odd note in Tony’s voice when he said that, and Steve glanced up just in time to see a strange expression cross his face before it was gone. As Steve ate, he tried to figure out what it was that he’d seen.  Distaste? It did look a little like Tony had bitten into something sour. Aversion? Like even as he said the idea, he didn’t like it?  Odd. But whatever it was, Steve told himself, it wasn’t any of his business so he tried to keep the conversation light for the rest of lunch.

 

“I’ve got to do more work here in the office and then I’ll be down in my lab for the rest of the day,” Tony said as they returned to Stark Tower.  As he sat down behind his desk with a sigh, Steve nodded and took one of the chairs in the corner, digging his art supplies out of his bag.  A comfortable silence reigned for a long time while Steve sketched, punctuated periodically by Tony grumbling about something under his breath.  Steve filled pages upon trying to capture the range of expressions on Tony’s face and the way he liked to talk with his hands; he was concentrating so deeply that the sound of the door opening made him jerk hard enough that his pencil dug a thick line into his paper.

“Oh, hey Obie,” Tony said as he looked up at the man at the door.  “What’s up?”  Steve studied the newcomer as he crossed the office in big strides, coming around the desk to give Tony a one arm hug around his shoulders, clapping him on the back in that obnoxious way heterosexual men did when they hugged.  “Obie” was bald with a gray beard, tall and broad across the shoulders in the way that some men got as they aged.  His eyes seemed small and dark underneath an imposing brow, and his lips were thin; even though he was currently smiling at Tony, something in his eyes made Steve think that this was a very dangerous man.

“I was just coming by to see if you’ve taken a look at the quarterly report yet,” Obie said, crossing the room to the bar and the row of alcohol decanters there.  “The board has been hounding me about it and- who’s this?” He said sharply, finally noticing Steve.

“This is the artist I commissioned to paint my portraits,” Tony said, murmuring a thank you as Obie set a glass of alcohol down next to his elbow and then went to pour himself some.  Steve kept his face carefully blank as he noticed that Obie didn’t offer him any, not that he was a day drinker anyway.  “His name is Ste-”

“I’m sure he can work elsewhere for a while,” Obie said pointedly, “or come back later.”

Steve was already packing up his sketchbook before Obie finished talking.  Honestly, he was grateful when Obie interrupted Tony before he could finish the introduction, because he didn’t really want this man to know any more about him than was strictly necessary.   Nor spend any more time in his presence than he had to.  

“I’ll contact you about tomorrow,” Tony said, and Steve nodded in acknowledgement as he slung his messenger back around his shoulders.   Politeness dictated that he should have also said goodbye to Obie, but Steve could tell that he’d already been forgotten by the older man so he just made his escape.  He glanced back as he closed the office door, and the image of Obie looming over Tony, backlit by the harsh white light coming from the windows, followed him all the way home.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, who is Obie?” Steve asked Tony with a careful casualness, wandering around the lab as if the question was just idle curiosity.  He’d spent a lot of time over the past few days wondering what it was about the man that had caused such a visceral reaction in him; late last night, unable to sleep, he had even sketched him a couple of times to see if he could capture the coldness in his eyes.

“Obie’s an old friend of the family,” Tony said, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed in concentration as he soldered a circuit on to the doohickey he was making.  He’d explained it when Steve had shown up but it had gone in one ear and out the other.  Steve had instead been distracted by the sight of Tony’s biceps in the tank top he was wearing and the way Tony’s goggles were pushed up onto his forehead, making his hair stick up in crazy directions.  “He’s also the CFO.”

“Huh.” There were so many things he wanted to say, things like _does he kick puppies?_ and _I bet he voted for Reagan, didn’t he?_ But through a force of will that Peggy would be proud of, Steve managed to keep his mouth shut.   Glancing over, he smiled when he saw that Tony had his tongue between his teeth as he worked.  His sketchbook was too far away so Steve took a picture with his phone to draw from; he had just sat back down at one of the other work tables when the elevator dinged and the doors opened.  _Speak of the devil,_ Steve thought, trying not to let his face make a look of distaste as Obie strode in.

"Oh, hey, Obie,” Tony said absently, barely glancing up from his work.  “If you’re looking for the new missile plans, they are in the top drawer over there.” He nodded his head towards a desk in the corner, one of the few that didn’t have tools and parts cluttered all over the top.

“Thanks, Tony.”  Obie pulled open the top drawer, long and wide and shallow, and flipped through the sheaf of drafting papers inside.  “Looks great,” he said as he rolled the plans up.  “What are you working on there?”

“We talked about it yesterday, remember?”

“Yeah, we did, and I thought you agreed that it wasn’t a priority right now.”  Steve worked really hard to keep his head down and hands busy, though the way that Obie was talking to Tony was making his hackles rise.  He watched Obie carefully out of the corner of his eye; the older man’s face was open and easy but his hand was so tight on the rolled up plans that it was wrinkling the paper.

“That’s why I finished the missile plans first.”  Tony finally finished whatever he was doing and looked up, jaw set stubbornly.  “I also reviewed the prospectus and the quarter financials and emailed them to you, so I figured I was off the clock.”

Suddenly Obie relented, visibly relaxing and smiling genially.  “You’re right, you’re right,” he admitted with an airy wave of his hand.  “I’ll leave you alone.”

Tony smiled, shoulders relaxing as well. “Thanks, Obie.  Have a good evening.”

Steve watched as Obie walked back to the elevator, and as the doors closed, the easy-going bonhomie dropped from his face like a mask.  “Jesus,” Steve muttered to himself, surprised by the rage he’d seen in Obie in that split second.  Looking down, he saw that he’d been sketching Obie, the warm smile with the cold eyes, and with a frown he sketched in a couple of devil horns on the bald head.  “Do you and Obie get along?” Steve asked without thinking, still trying to understand what he’d seen in Obie’s eyes before the elevator doors had closed.

 “Yeah, of course. Obie’s like an uncle.  Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Steve said quickly. 

But Tony turned to look at him anyway, eyes sharp and intense.  “Has someone said something?”

“No. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say anything, it’s really none of my business.”

Tony tapped his screwdriver against the work table thoughtfully, still pinning Steve with his gaze.  “Yeah, it’s not,” he said, and Steve got a stab of cold fear that he’d fucked it up, but after another moment Tony went back to work without saying anything else.  But Tony didn’t seem to be talkative after that, so Steve settled in with his sketchbook and started roughing out the proportions for the Stark Industries portrait. 

 

A week and a half later, Tony had approved Steve’s design for the SI portrait, but Steve was no closer to figuring out what to do for the personal portrait.  He had raised the idea of visiting Tony’s home a couple of times, only to be deflected; he couldn’t figure out why until he realized one morning, when Tony had overslept his alarm, that Tony had actually been sleeping on a cot in his lab.  Steve realized a lot of things that morning as he watched Tony slowly come to life over a massive cup of coffee: first, that Tony was adorable first thing in the morning, sleep rumpled and moving slowly.  He wished he could do a portrait of him like this, staring into space while steam curled around him.  Second, he realized that the lab _was_ home for Tony, more than anywhere else, so luckily there was the inspiration for that second portrait.  Third, Tony was clearly worried about something because the dark circles under his eyes clearly came from more than one night of missed sleep.              

“Hey, you wanna get out of here?” Tony said suddenly. "Wanna go somewhere with me?"

“Sure,” Steve said with a shrug.  He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his palm, repressing the urge to squeeze Tony’s shoulder to test the smooth curve of muscle there.  For artistic purposes only, you understand.   “Where do you want to go?”

“How do you feel about LA?”

For a moment Steve was baffled, blinking as he tried to remember a neighborhood of New York called LA. “You mean Los Angeles? California?” He said incredulously.

“Yeah.” Tony looked up and wrinkled his nose at the look on Steve’s face.  “Too much?  It’s too much. You’ve probably got other stuff going on, don’t you? I’ve just been feeling a little, I dunno, cooped up-”

“Let’s do it,” Steve said suddenly.  He had taken the leap of quitting the coffee shop when it looked like this commission was the real thing, so he didn’t have anything keeping him in New York for the next day or so, not even a house plant.  “I don’t have any other clothes, though,” Steve said, frowning down at his outfit.  “Or even a toothbrush.”

Tony waved the concern away with a smile.  “That’s not a problem, we can swing by your place on the way to the airport.  Awesome! JARVIS, will you have the airport get the plane ready and file a flight plan?”

 

Of course Tony had his own plane, which would normally offend Steve’s socialist soul but Tony was so goddamned _nice_ about it that it was hard for Steve to be too resentful about it. He talked to everyone, asking about their family and cooing over kid and pet photos, tipped outrageously, and even carried his own bags onto the plane.

As Steve settled in to a seat, he took in the plush carpet, the tables between the seats, the _couch._  The kitchen at the far end of the cabin was bigger than the one in his apartment. “Swanky,” he commented as Tony sat down across from him.

Tony looked around as if it was his first time on the plane too.  “Honestly, it’s kind of middling, as planes go.  You should see what some of those Saudi billionaires have, they are downright tacky.”

Steve only made a thoughtful sound and reached for his sketchbook, wanting to capture Tony’s sybaritic slouch in the overstuffed airplane seat before he moved.  “So what really prompted this?” Steve said as he sketched.

“What?”

“You just seem like you are, I don’t know, running away from something.”

Tony stared at him for a long minute.  “It is so eerie when you do that.  Is it like a second sense? Are you psychic?”

Steve raised an eyebrow without looking up from the page.  “Um, no.  I have been by your side for at least a few hours a day for two weeks now.   I think I’ve spent more time with you than I have with a few of the guys I’ve dated.  Wouldn’t it be _more_ weird if I couldn’t tell that something was bothering you?”

“I guess so.”   Tony was silent for so long that Steve looked up, seeing an odd look on Tony’s face as he looked out the window.  “My parent’s house got broken into last night,” he said after a minute or two.  “I was supposed to be there.  They didn’t take much more than the electronics, but…”

“Jesus.”  Steve’s hand went still. “That’s creepy.”

“Right? Obie’s been reminding me that I haven’t finished going through my parent’s estate so I said I would go yesterday.  I didn’t end up going because…” Tony trailed off, scrubbing a hand over his face and exhaling loudly.

“Because that makes it real,” Steve finished softly.  “I know what you mean.  My dad died when I was a baby, but my mom died while I was in college and it took me a long time to go through her stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s probably part of it.”  Tony exhaled and scrubbed his hands through his hair.  “But that’s weird, right? Of all the nights?”

“Yeah.”  Steve found himself chewing on his pencil and made himself stop.  Of course his first thought, and the thought that Tony was clearly trying not to have, was that for some reason Obie set Tony up, clearly expecting him to be at that house last night.   Which wouldn’t surprise Steve at all.

But maybe it really had just been a hell of a coincidence.  Steve bit his tongue, not sure what else to say without accusing Obie of something dire, and Tony had already made it clear that Obie was off limits as a topic of conversation.   “You know, I’m a little surprised you don’t have a bodyguard,” he said instead.

“Why? I’m not _that_ famous or important.”  

“If you say so,” Steve said skeptically.  “I just…” _Can’t stop thinking that your good old uncle Obie hates your guts,_ his brain supplied.  “Guess I’m just spooked by the idea of someone breaking into your house.”

“It will be fine.  I prefer staying in the tower anyway,” Tony said.  “And the Malibu house has better security, so you don’t have to worry while we are there.”

Christ, Steve hadn’t even thought of that.  He scratched his jaw and tried to remember the self-defense moves his friend Bucky had taught him before he’d gotten shipped off to Iraq.  “So what do you want to do in LA?” Steve said, trying to change the subject and lighten Tony’s spirit.  “I’m telling you right now I’m spending at least half a day at the Getty.”

“Not the LACMA? Or the Broad?”  Tony said with a smile, though his eyes were still a bit shadowed.  “You’re a classics man?”

“I mean, if you insist,” Steve said generously.  “I suppose I would go, if you wanted to.”

Tony laughed.  “I mostly visited the Science Center when I was a kid.  When I was graduating MIT, they actually did a small exhibit on my first robot, DUM-E.”

“DUM-E? The robot from your lab that you’re always threatening to turn into a toaster?”

Tony’s eyes lit up at the fact that Steve had remembered his robot’s name, and he spent the rest of the flight talking about voice recognition programs and learning algorithms.  The whole time Steve smiled and nodded, enchanted more by Tony’s enthusiasm than the subject matter, hand flying over the page as he tried to capture the animation on Tony’s face. 

Tony eventually wound down when the pilot announced their descent into a private airfield south of LA. As Steve stared out the window, watching the buildings of LA passing beneath them, it occurred to him that one day he was going to actually have to start putting paint on the canvas and that would mean the beginning of the end of his time with Tony.  He rubbed a hand over his chest, surprised at how sad the thought made him. 


	3. Chapter 3

Coming home after the trip to LA felt like being awake when you went from drunk to hungover; every step towards his empty apartment made him tired and a little sad.  After he unlocked the door he set his bags down with a sigh and flipped through his mail, smiling victoriously at his student loan bill because _fuck you_ , _I have money now._   Living the dream, he thought with a sort of thin, faded amusement as he collapsed on the couch and studiously ignored the two blank canvases looming in the corner of his living room.  He turned on the TV for some background noise and contemplated what to do now; he _should_ unpack, probably take a shower and eat, but all of those things sounded like too much effort _._

He was lightly dozing on the couch when he heard his phone ding from a text message; picking it up, he snorted when he saw that Tony had sent him a picture of a pile of paperwork on his desk and wrote, _Teacher didn’t like me skipping school :p_

“I bet,” Steve muttered.   _Aren’t you the CEO?_ He wrote back.  _That makes you the principal._

 _Yeah, but Obie’s been the CFO for over a decade. I’m trying not to rock the boat,_ Tony wrote back after a couple of minutes.

“A decade?” Steve read out loud.  He tapped his phone against his palm.  “Always a bridesmaid, never the bride, huh Obie?”  He could just see Tony, fresh from MIT, coming in to Stark Industries with a bunch of new ideas after his father’s death and Obie all but patting him on the head and warning him about “rocking the boat.”  Steve had a personal pet peeve about phrases like “don’t rock the boat” and “go along to get along” because they were all about maintaining the status quo and were usually said by people personally profiting from said status quo.  Made him want to fuck shit up just on principle.

But.  It wasn’t his business, so in lieu of a direct answer, Steve sent an emoji of a boat, a splash, and a person swimming, then grabbed his laptop and started googling the CFO of Stark Industries.  

                 

A few days later, Steve was puttering around his apartment, finally doing laundry and prepping the first canvas to be painted, when he got a text message from Peggy.   It was a news article, and when Steve followed the link his stomach dropped.   He closed the browser after skimming the first paragraph and dialed Tony’s number.

“Tony!” He said with relief when he heard Tony’s voice.  “I just saw the news, are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, didn’t even need to go to the hospital,” Tony said, the brightness in his voice sounding brittle.  “Car got a bit banged up though.”

“Yeah, I saw.”  Honestly it was a miracle that Tony walked away from that; the news article said that it was a testament to Tony’s skill as a driver that he hadn’t lost control of the vehicle.   It had also mentioned that Tony’s parents had died in a car accident, so Steve would bet his entire paycheck from this commission that Tony was in a really bad head space right now. “Hey, you want to get a drink?” he offered.  He didn’t say “I don’t think you should be alone right now,” because he figured that was the fastest way to make Tony refuse.

“Well, I’m a little ahead of you,” Tony confessed.  “Obie just left.”

That made Steve scowl.  “Ok, I’ll be there soon,” he said, keeping his voice light.  As soon as he got off the phone he ordered food from Tony’s favorite restaurant to pick up on the way, because he knew from experience that Obie liked to pour booze down Tony’s throat as if he were single-handedly trying to turn him into an alcoholic.  

When Steve got to the tower, Mexican food in hand, he was surprised to see that Tony was drinking coffee instead of alcohol, though the glasses lined up next to the sink told their own story.  “So want to tell me what happened?” he said as he started to set out the food, pushing the bag of empanadas towards Tony.

“The brakes failed,” Tony said, sounding tired.  “I was coming up to an intersection and the pedal was just mush under my foot.  Investigators say there was a pinhole leak in one of the brake lines, and while we were in LA it was just steadily leaking brake fluid.  Apparently there was a big puddle in my garage.”

“And you didn’t notice that before you got in the car?” That struck Steve as unlikely.  Tony’s lab may look like a mess at first glance, but Steve knew that Tony could put his hands on anything he needed at a moment’s notice. The idea that he would miss something as obvious as a puddle of brake fluid under one of his cars seemed doubtful.

Tony shrugged, looking troubled as he picked at the empanada filling.  “I guess not.”

“How did the leak happen?”

“Sometimes road debris, like a nail or screw or glass, can fly up and hit the brake line in just the right way.”

“Weird. And scary.”  Steve bit his lip.  “Does anyone else have access to your lab?” he asked.  “Like a janitor or something,” he added hurriedly when Tony’s eyes flew up to meet his, “who would have maybe seen the puddle?”

“No, no one like that.”  Tony got quiet again and Steve got the feeling that they might be having the same thought; Steve wanted to ask if there were security cameras in the lab but there was no way to casually bring up something like that.

 _You know what,_ Steve thought, _fuck it._  With a silent apology to Peggy, in case this blew up in his face, Steve said quietly, “Tony, do you really think that was an accident?”

Tony exhaled loudly but didn’t seem shocked by the question.  Steve breathed a sigh of relief.  “I don’t know what to think,” he said.  “I’ve been a bit distracted lately, but…”

“But you take care of your cars like they are your pets,” Steve finished.  That earned him a small smile and a soft "yeah."

“Can we talk about something else?” Tony said after a moment.  “I just…”

“Yeah, of course.”  Steve wracked his brain for a change of topic. “Did I ever tell you about how I met my friend Bucky?”  When Tony shook his head, Steve launched into a moderately embellished account of a schoolyard scuffle which then led to Tony talking about his first meeting with his best friend Rhodey, until by the time all the food was gone Tony was looking a little bit better.

But Steve knew how fragile moods like that could be, how easily cheer could collapse into depression when silence falls, so he was hesitant to leave, even though tiredness was dragging at his limbs.  “Want to stay with me tonight?” He offered when conversation lagged, sleepiness making his brain-to-mouth filter less robust than it would normally be.  “My couch is probably more comfortable than the cot.”

To his surprise, Tony actually seemed a little bit tempted, as if Steve’s company was actually worth sleeping on an ancient couch in a ratty apartment instead of staying inside a Midtown skyscraper that he _literally owned._  “Thank you for the thought,” he said after a moment.  “But I’m fine here.”

“Okay.  But you know you’re welcome at my place if you… uh…” Steve’s brain just then caught up to his mouth and was horrified at what he was saying. _Inappropriate,_ the professional side of him said reprovingly, while the rest of him shrieked _if you don’t shut up_ _he’s going to figure out about your stupid crush_. “Are in the neighborhood,” he finished lamely, busying himself by cleaning up the mess from dinner, trying to act natural.

“Thanks,” Tony said with a tired but genuine smile. “For the offer and for the, you know, food. And for being here.  I don’t have many friends, _real_ friends, and since I graduated from college I haven’t even had a chance to see much of of my best friend because he’s in the military, so…”  Tony grimaced and scrubbed his hands over his face.  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound maudlin or-or self-pitying-”

“Stop,” Steve said, putting a hand on Tony’s shoulder.  “It’s ok to feel lonely sometimes.  That’s why I offered.”

Tony reached up and put his hand over Steve’s and at the touch every nerve ending in Steve's body went _whee!_ Steve squeezed once to make it look like he wasn’t running away from Tony’s touch and then retreated before his body did anything else stupid, like get an erection or try to see if Tony’s hair was as soft as it looked.  “I’m going to head home,” Steve said, throwing his coat over his shoulders and brushing his hair out of his eyes.  “Call me if you need anything, ok? Even if you just need to talk.”

“Thanks,” Tony said again, following him to the elevator as if he really wanted to follow Steve home but wouldn’t let himself.  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Steve said, even though he had planned to start painting.  But whatever, no big deal, he could probably bring all of his paints with him and work here, it probably wouldn’t be _that_ hard to work without his easel or his cleaning supplies or all of his spare brushes.  “Tomorrow,” he said, offering a smile.  He watched as Tony’s eyes dropped to his mouth and for a breathless, aching moment he thought that Tony was going to kiss him and his heart raced with how much he wanted that to happen.  But then the elevator dinged and the doors opened and the moment was gone.

 

Over the next few days, as promised, he gradually schlepped over all of his painting supplies and took over a corner in Tony’s office.  He couldn't say if he was more productive or less than he would have been at home; at home it was easy to get distracted or be tempted into taking a nap, but at Tony's office, there was Tony, so it probably came out even.  

Not today, though.  Today Tony had been particularly restless, and Steve could tell that he was playing on the internet instead of working, so it wasn't really a surprise when he stood up and starting meandering over to Steve's corner. 

“Can I see?”

Steve hesitated, because he normally didn’t like people to see his paintings until he was finished, but after a moment he nodded and moved away from the canvas.

“Looking good,” Tony said, sounding genuinely impressed.  Steve shrugged off the praise because there wasn’t much to look at, really; Steve had just started filling in the broad strokes of the background, nothing in too much detail, but you could already tell what the final product was more or less supposed to look like, sans Tony himself.  “What’s going over here?”  Tony asked, pointing to a blank spot on the right side of the canvas.

Steve stared and felt a chill go down his spine.  That’s where Obie always stood when he was in Tony’s office, and apparently Steve had unconsciously left space for him there. _Gross. And creepy._   “Nothing,” Steve said, getting some white on his brush and filling in the space. It would eventually be one of the huge, almost floor to ceiling windows that dominated the far wall of the office.  “Just hadn’t gotten there yet.”

Just then Steve heard the door open behind him and he jumped, wondering if somehow he’d summoned Obie by thinking about him, but instead a tall, handsome black man in an Air Force uniform came in.

“Platypus!” Tony said, excited, and Steve felt a brief, unworthy stab of jealousy at the joy on Tony’s face as he pulled the man into a hug.  Steve realized that this must be the friend Tony had been talking about, the one he didn’t get to see much because he was in the military.  Robbie? Roddy?

“Good to see you too, Tony,” the man said, giving him one more squeeze before he let go.  “How are you? And who’s this?” Steve stood, wiping his fingers on his pants, and held out a hand.

“Rhodey,” that’s what it was, _Rhodey_ , “this is Steve.  Steve, this is Rhodey.”

“Captain James Rhodes,” Rhodey said with a smile, his handshake firm and pleasant.  “Pleasure to meet you, Steve.”  His eyes were warm and kind and affectionate when they went back to Tony, and even around the jealousy Steve was happy that Tony clearly had at least one other person in his life who cared about him.  

“So what brings you to town, Rhodey? I thought you were in Alaska or something.”  Tony hopped up to sit on his desk, looking like a kid, and Rhodey sat down in one of the overstuffed armchairs across from the desk with a sigh of relief.

“I’m TDY for a conference.  I just flew in and I thought, man, I wish I knew someone in New York who I could stay with.” Steve didn’t think Tony could look any happier until Rhodey mentioned he was staying.  Rhodey must have seen it too because he laughed and pointed his finger at Tony warningly. “Just two nights, nothing crazy.”

“Nothing crazy,” Tony repeated obediently, though his eyes said he was already planning something.  “That Mexican place we like is still open, are you hungry?”

“Sounds good.”

As they made plans, Steve started packing it up for the day, head down and chest tight, feeling curiously melancholy and missing Bucky like crazy.  

“- right, Steve?”

“Huh?” Steve glanced up and saw Tony and Rhodey looking at him expectantly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re coming to dinner with us?”

“Oh, uh…” Steve had already been mentally preparing himself to spend the night alone in his apartment so the invitation caught him off guard.  “I mean, I’m sure you two want to catch up-”

“No-“ Tony protested at the same time Rhodey said, “Are you kidding? A new person to tell all my Tony stories to? I’ll even buy the first round,” and he sounded so sincere that thirty minutes later Steve found himself sipping the strongest margarita he’d ever had and trying not to choke on it while Rhodey told the story of how Tony got himself locked out of a frat house naked in the winter time.  Tony was laughingly claiming that Rhodey was making it up, but Steve thought that Tony doth protest too much. 

“On _that_ note, I’ll be right back,” Tony said, rolling his eyes but smiling as he left the table. 

As Rhodey watched him go, Steve saw his smile dim and his eyes grow serious.  “Not to bring down the mood or anything,” he said, breaking a nacho chip into increasingly small pieces, “but how’s Tony doing?”

“Um, alright, I guess,” Steve said, wondering how much Rhodey knew about Tony’s strange string of accidents. “Why?”

“He’s just been sounding stressed lately. More than usual.  Is Obadiah leaning on him too hard?  Tony has a bad habit of working his dumb ass into the ground if no one watches out for him.”

“Umm…”  Steve had no idea what to say. “He’s been a little shaken since that car accident,” he ventured.  “But I do know that he’s been sleeping at the lab instead of at his parent’s house, but-”

“In the lab?” Rhodey’s gaze sharpened. “Not in his rooms?”

“His rooms?” Steve said stupidly, though of course it made way more sense for Tony to have a place to stay in his giant skyscraper than commute every day to some mansion in the suburbs.  He’d never even _mentioned_ it, though he must have been showering somewhere. “I mean, maybe sometimes, but I’ve woken him up at least twice coming to the lab in the morning, so...”

Rhodey sighed and ran a hand over his close-shaved head.  “Dammit.  I’ve been worried that he’s been reverting to bad habits since his parents died.”

Steve glanced quickly towards the bathroom but Tony hadn’t come out yet.  “Hey, what did you mean about Obie leaning on him too hard?”

Rhodey made a face. “That guy has never had much use for Tony unless he could make money off of his ideas.  In my opinion, at least. Tony doesn’t like to hear that, though, because apparently Obie was always distracting Howard from Tony and his mom when he got too drunk.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tony’s dad was an abusive, alcoholic asshole,” Rhodey said bluntly. “Whenever we were at MIT, Tony was fine, but when school breaks came around and everyone had to go home, he got skittish as a kicked dog.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve said, stunned. 

“And Howard had a blood alcohol level of .15 when he got into that car crash.  Tony went through a real bad spell right after he got the news because he blamed his dad for killing his mom.  I tried to be there for his as much as I could, but...”  Rhodey made a face and gestured to his uniform.

Before Steve could ask any more questions, the waitress and Tony came back at the same time and after ordering dinner the conversation turned to Tony’s current pet project in the lab.  While Rhodey and Tony talked about thrust and drag and other stuff that went way over Steve’s head, Steve sat back in his chair and stared at his drink, feeling queasy.  He remembered all the times he’d seen Obie press a glass of whiskey into Tony’s hand and imagined him doing the same to Tony’s dad, smiling and chatting and always making sure that Howard’s drink was topped off.

 “Why the long face, Steve?” Tony asked, jostling him gently in the shoulder and breaking him from his thoughts.

“I think the tequila is hitting me harder than I expected,” Steve said, forcing a smile and pushing his drink away.  “It’s making me tired.”

“Do you want to go? I can call you a cab,” Tony started, but Steve shook his head.

“I’ll be fine.  So what were you guys talking about?”

As Tony started explaining his idea for unmanned combat vehicles, Steve got conscripted into sketching out his design on the back of a kid’s menu with a pair of crayons, trying to keep up with Tony and Rhodey as they tossed around ideas.  He wished Bucky were here, not only because seeing Tony and Rhodey together made him miss his own best friend, but also because Bucky _loved_ talking guns and right now the current argument seemed to be about the largest caliber gun they could feasibly mount on this thing without it accidentally destroying itself.   Steve listened with half an ear as he doodled, drawing a pair of robots posed next to each other, both carrying a cartoonishly large weapon in each hand.  One had a speech bubble that said, “Mine’s bigger” and the other one said “It’s how you use it.”

“It’s not about the weight, it’s about the _recoil-_ ” Rhodey was saying, then he stopped and started laughing when he saw Steve’s doodle.   Steve signed it and Rhodey tucked it away in his wallet before launching into the story about how DUM-E set off the fire alarm while they were in MIT and Tony had to talk the dean down from calling the bomb squad.

Later, as Tony was calling them a car, Rhodey pulled Steve to the side and said, “Keep an eye on him for me, will you? I’m worried about him.”  Steve nodded and thought _buddy,_ _I don’t think you know the half of it._

 

A couple of weeks later, Steve was washing his meds down with a glass of lactose-free milk when he heard a knock on his door.   Frowning, Steve glanced at the clock and called out, “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” Tony’s voice said. “Tony,” he added, as if Steve wouldn’t recognize his voice.

“Hold on.”  Steve hurried over and turned the deadbolts, throwing open the door with concern. “Hey, Tony. What’s…”  He faltered when he saw the look on Tony’s face.

“Hey. Uh, can I come inside?” Tony said, his voice tight and strain was showing around his eyes.  “I think Obadiah is trying to kill me.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh my God,” Steve said as he stepped aside and let Tony come in.  Despite himself, he was still surprised to hear Tony say it; attempted murder wasn't something that happened to people in real life, right?  “What happened?”

Even though it wasn’t cold in Steve’s apartment, Tony shivered once and wrapped his arms tightly around himself, so without thinking Steve pulled him into a hug.  Tony sagged against him, head falling down to rest on his shoulder. “This afternoon I almost died from carbon monoxide poisoning,” Tony said to Steve’s collarbone, arms creeping around Steve's waist as if unsure of their welcome. 

“ _What?_ How? _”_  

“Fire department says there was a leak in some of my welding equipment, and the battery in my monoxide sensor was dead.”

Steve frowned in disbelief. “What about those giant ventilation fans down there?”  They were always a soft roar in the background of Tony’s lab, gentle white noise machines that probably helped Tony get to sleep whenever he pulled out the cot.  They were so omnipresent that Steve often forgot about them, but the lab would be deafeningly, noticeably silent if they weren’t on.

Steve felt Tony shrug.  “They were on, but for some reason weren’t actually moving any air.  We have the HVAC guys coming in to check out the problem in the morning."

“Christ.”  His arms tightened around Tony’s shoulders.  The hug was going on for a bit long, but Tony didn’t seem inclined to pull away so Steve was willing to stand here as long as necessary.   “It will be ok,” Steve said.  He had to make a conscious effort to stay still; everything in him wanted to run his fingers through Tony's hair and kiss his temple, anything to make him stop sounding so lost. “We’ll figure this out.”

“I’m scared,” Tony admitted, voice ragged. His hands fisted in Steve's oversized pajama shirt. “The only reason why I am alive right now is because I was talking to Rhodey on the phone, he noticed that I was starting to sound disoriented so he had security come in and check on me.  Half the time I think I’m just imagining things because it seems so _crazy_ , but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“You’re not crazy,” Steve said firmly.  He reluctantly drew back from the hug and pulled Tony towards the couch, settling him there under a blanket and setting the kettle on for tea.  Tony immediately fell over onto the couch and curled up into a ball, as if Steve himself had been the only thing keeping him vertical. “Something really fucked up is going on.  Have you thought about going to the cops?”

"And tell them what? I'll sound like a paranoid lunatic," Tony said bitterly, voice muffled by the blanket.  “I also suspect Obie has been setting me up to look incompetent so he can take over the company, so I don’t exactly want to give him any more ammunition.”

While the water heated Steve sat next to Tony on the couch, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Well, I mean, better that than _dead,_ right?” 

Tony raised his head to give Steve a bleak look, eyes red rimmed.  “I feel like I might be dead either way.”

“ _No_ ,” Steve said, squeezing Tony's arm and shaking him lightly.  “No, that’s not going to happen. We’re going to figure this out, ok?  I refuse to believe that you can’t outsmart this asshole.”

Tony didn’t look convinced, but the kettle was starting to whistle so Steve left him long enough to make two cups of tea and retrieve the sugar.  “I know it’s not coffee,” he said when he set a mug in front of Tony, “but it always makes me feel better.”

With a nod and a faint smile, Tony wrapped his hands around the mug as if eager for the warmth.  Steve sat down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and the apartment was silent while he thought furiously.

“What we need is something solid to take to the police,” Steve mused out loud.  He grabbed his laptop and put it in front of Tony, opening up a new document.  “First, I think you should write down everything you can remember, conversations, dates, and anything weird that has ever happened, ok? Meanwhile, I’m going to find you a private investigator.”

“You know a private investigator?”  Tony asked curiously as he started to type; he seemed a bit steadier now that they had a plan, though his shoulders were still hunched and his face was pale.

“No, but the internet does,” Steve said absently, already pulling up Google on his phone.

 

Steve’s first impression after spending fifteen minutes with Jessica Jones was overwhelming gratitude that she was on their side, because he would _not_ want her as an enemy.

“So what do you think?” Tony asked after she finished reading his account.

“Well," she said as she folded up the paper and stuffed it inside her leather jacket, "either you are an exceptionally careless idiot or you’re right, someone’s out to get you.  What makes you think it’s this Stane guy?”

“If you’d met him, you’d think it was him too,” Steve muttered.

Tony sighed.  “We’ve been arguing a lot, lately, about the future of Stark Industries.  I’ve also been trying to take on a more active role with running the company, and he’s been…dragging his feet.”

Jessica snorted.  “Yeah, money, power, and sex, that’s pretty much why people do twisted shit," she said, sounding bored.  "My retainer’s five hundred for the first week plus expenses.”

Tony didn’t blink, just dug through his wallet and pulled out ten hundred-dollar bills. 

Jessica raised an eyebrow as she took them.  “You walk around New York with that much cash? Maybe you do have a death wish.”

“So what should he do now?” Steve asked.  “Leave town?”

“Yeah, that or get a bodyguard or two for a while.  Which would attract less attention, you suddenly leaving New York or suddenly getting a bodyguard?”

“Leaving New York,” Steve and Tony said in unison.

“Well, there you go,” she said, turning to leave.  “Just make sure you’re answering your phone and email, I’ll be in touch.”

With that, she let herself out of Steve’s apartment, letting the door slam shut behind her.  They both stared at the door for a while and then Tony said, “I like her.  She’s like…”

“A pit bull,” Steve finished.  “I feel like once she starts something, she’s in it until it’s done.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Tony said with a small smile.  “Thanks for all your help, Steve.  I know this is probably nothing, but…”

“You are too smart not to trust your instincts, Tony,” Steve said, leaning against the back of the couch and staring up at the ceiling; his mind was racing because he felt like there was something more he could be doing but he had no idea what that could be.  “If there’s something there I’m sure she’ll find it.”

“It sounds so easy when you say it.  Hire private eye, stop Stane, live happily ever after.” Tony picked up his tea and made a face when saw that it was lukewarm.   He set it back down and leaned back against the couch as well.

Steve snorted and turned his head to look at Tony.  “Well I am pretty good at making plans.  We just got to take this step by step: first step, make sure you’re safe.  I think you’re safe here for the night, if you want to stay, since I know Obie doesn’t know me from Adam.”

“Are you sure? I can – get a room, maybe, or…” Tony turned his head to face Steve and Steve’s heart skipped a beat and he almost forgot what he was going to say when he saw how close Tony’s face was to his own.   

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve managed, hoping he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt.  “Are you” _gay bi interested in men interested in me specifically_ “tired?” He really should go to bed. Clearly he was not ready for the object of his silly infatuation to be sitting on his couch looking sad and lonely.

“I am, but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep,” Tony admitted.  "Normally when I feel like this I’d stay up working all night, but my lab is filled with poisonous gas, so.”

“Let’s don’t do that.” Steve’s eyes roamed over his face, noting the purple bruises under his eyes and the way his skin seemed sallow and dull.  Steve wanted to feed him and wrap him up in his bed for a week, only waking him up long enough to suck his dick then let him go back to sleep. With a silent sigh, he sat up so he wouldn’t kiss Tony and grabbed the remote to turn on Netflix.  “What’s your comfort show, that show you watch when you are sick or just about to go to bed?  Knowing you, it’s something like, let me guess… _How It’s Made_?”

“ _Mythbusters_ ,” Tony said with a smile.  “I appreciate their dedication to blowing stuff up.”

Steve moved down to the end of the couch and patted the cushion for Tony to lie down.  “Mine is Bob Ross, but I won’t subject you to that.”

Despite what he’d said, Tony lasted only one and a half episodes before he fell asleep, one hand curled under his head and the other just barely brushing Steve’s thigh, like he wanted the human contact but didn’t feel like he could ask for it.  Steve on the other hand, even though he was about to fall asleep from the adrenaline crash, knew better than to do it sitting up on the couch; his fucked up back would make life not worth living tomorrow.  So he tucked in the blanket around Tony’s sleeping body, turned off the TV and all the lights and went to bed, praying that things would seem a lot better in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

When they had come up with this plan, Steve hadn’t realized how depressing it would be to be in Tony’s lab and his office without him.  It was strange how much the energy of a person made a place feel vibrant and interesting, Steve mused, poking at one of Tony’s half-finished inventions.  In Tony’s hands these things felt like they had the power to change the world, but right now they just seemed like complex paperweights. 

He sighed, trying to be less maudlin.  Tony had been gone for over two weeks now, hiding out in Monte Carlo and pretending to be blowing his money on gambling, booze and women; he had reluctantly agreed to leave Steve and Jessica to find a way to pull Stane’s fangs without him, which at the time had seemed like a great idea.  Two weeks later, however, the appeal of the plan had palled, particularly when they hadn’t turned up anything useful _and_ Steve saw new pictures every other day of Tony with some beautiful lady on his arm.  Steve had done his best to poke around during the day while he was working on the portraits, but there was only so much he could accomplish while there were other people around.  Which was why he was here at eleven at night, moping around Tony’s lab alone while he waited to let Jessica in through the door to Tony’s private section of the parking garage.

Steve was spinning around on one of Tony’s stools, bored, when his phone buzzed in his pocket. _Anything yet?_ Tony wrote.

 _She’s not here yet_ , Steve wrote back.  It felt like the only saving grace of this whole situation was that Steve spoke and texted to Tony every day, which helped the loneliness, if not the jealousy.  Not that Steve had the right to be jealous, he told himself.  He was Tony’s _friend,_ not his lover, no matter how much he wanted to be both.

Finally the knock came, and Jessica was following Steve through the lab to the elevator, eyes scanning with disinterest over Tony’s tools and cars, only lingering a moment on a motorcycle in the far corner.  Steve noticed a cut near her hairline, held together with what looked like glue, but her eyes were clear and her gait steady so he didn’t bother asking her if she was alright; he suspected she was a lot like him, that “I’m fine” was going to be the answer even if she were coughing up blood.

“So have you found anything yet?” Steve asked as they went up the elevator to the finance division where Stane's office was.

“Nothing that ties him to attempted murder, but he is definitely up to something fucking shady,” she said as the doors opened with a ding.  “He’s got two different burner phones that he keeps locked in a secret compartment of his car, and I know he’s not using them for mistresses or prostitutes.  I’m hoping we’ll figure out what they are for tonight.”

Steve made a face at the mention of prostitutes; Stane having sex was a mental image he could have gladly gone without.  “His office is over here,” he said, using Tony’s master set of keys to open Stane’s door.  “There isn’t anything in his drawers, but there’s a safe in that closet that I can’t open and I haven’t been able to get into his computer.”

Jessica didn’t respond, she just went straight to the closet and found the safe.  It was decent sized one, about the of one of those old-school televisions, with a very modern-looking combo lock on it. “Have you searched the secretary’s desk?” She asked Steve while she studied the safe.  “Sometimes these old white guys are sexist enough to think that the women working for them are too dumb to be paying attention to what they're doing.”

Stane didn’t strike Steve as one of those types, but he _hadn’t_ checked the desk outside Stane’s office, so with a shrug he left her to the safe cracking. The only thing he found of interest was a daily planner; flipping through it, he saw large blocks of time that were marked out and labeled “OS out,” no other notes or indications of why Stane was “out.”  It seemed strange enough to merit investigation, so Steve pulled out his phone and took pictures of each day where he saw that particular note, trying to figure out a pattern with the other appointments around it.  Stane’s secretary marked all of his doctor’s appointments and other personal errands as well as his work appointments, which made the vagueness of “OS out” seem even more unusual.

“Hey, Jessica, I think I’ve got-” Steve started as he came back into the office, only to stop when he saw Jessica sitting in front of an open safe, quickly taking photos of all the documents that had been inside. “You got it open, wow.”

“Does any of this stuff mean anything to you?” Jessica asked, shoving a pile of folders in his direction. “Assuming that your lover boy, like most guys, likes to talk shop outside of work.”

Steve rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything at her jab as he started flipping through the folders.  At first he didn’t notice anything strange, nothing that would justify keeping _these_ folders in a safe compared to the other stuff he’d found in Stane’s locked drawers.  It was a bunch of bills of sale, but they were printed of plain sheets of paper without the Stark Industries letterhead and the signatures at the bottom were all but unintelligible.  He went through them once, trying to remember if Tony had mentioned anything about these transactions, but nothing rang a bell.  On the second time through, though, a raised seal on one of the documents caught his attention.  Holding it under the light, he realized that what he’d thought were simple decorative loops forming the seal was actually Arabic calligraphy.  As he reread it, he realized that the other pages stapled behind it were a list of what had been sold.  He didn’t recognize anything on the list because it was all stuff like MK-4879 SN 9854431886534588 QTY (10), but as he went through more of the folders he started seeing a pattern.

“I’m pretty sure these are under the table arms deals,” Steve said eventually, wincing as his knees protested from kneeling on the hard floor. “I’m no political science expert, but I don’t think anyone is allowed to sell weapons to Iran.”  He handed over the bill of sale and his phone, where he had done a Google image search of the seal.

“Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps,” Jessica read from his computer screen.  “Yeah, that’s definitely illegal.”

“I think this one is North Korea, and this one is Afghanistan,” Steve said. “Tony mentioned some trips to Afghanistan, but he’s supposed to be selling things to the US Army, not whoever the hell this is.”

“Well, this is what Stane's been hiding, and probably explains why he was trying to kill your boy,” Jessica said, taking more pictures of the documents Steve was pointing at, “but doesn’t prove _that_ he was trying to kill him.”

“But it’s enough to put him in jail, so it doesn’t really matter,” Steve pointed out.  “So what do we do now? Call the cops?”

Jessica snorted and started gathering up all of the paperwork, stacking it neatly in the folders and then putting them back in the safe.  “First of all, this is way above the heads of the NYPD.   We call the cops then all we are doing is sending up a signal flare to Stane so he can have time to cover his tracks.”  She closed the door to the safe and spun the wheel to lock it again.  “What we have to do is put the entire case together then hand it over to whatever government organization handles this shit.”

“Who would that be?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Jessica said impatiently, shoving past Steve to get to the computer.  “This is my first treason case, too. Google it.”

Steve scowled but, driven by curiosity, he did, as Jessica cursed at Stane’s computer, trying to bypass its security.  “ICE, apparently,” Steve announced a few minutes later.  He rolled his eyes. “That makes me feel real good about this plan, ICE and Homeland Security are widely known as paragons of justice and efficiency."

When he saw that she was struggling, he remembered the thumb drive in his pocket, something that Tony had mailed to him yesterday.  “Here,” he said, reaching over her shoulder and putting it in the USB port.  There was a click and a whir and the screen flickered, then after a few seconds the screen went black and then the desktop appeared.   Then windows started opening and closing on the screen, faster than Steve could read, and the whole time the light on the thumb drive was blinking furiously.

“If Tony Stark thinks I’m putting _that_ into _my_ computer to look at those files, he’s lost his damn mind,” Jessica said after a moment, watching as the program that Tony had put onto the drive copied the entire contents of Stane’s computer. 

“Tony’s not interested in your porn and nudie pics,” Steve said with a smirk.  Eventually the screen went back to the lock screen, demanding a password, and the thumb drive went dark.

“He should be so lucky,” Jessica sneered, pushing back from the computer desk.  “I have confidential client files on there, smartass.”

“Yeah, yeah. I'll mail it back to him and he can go through them himself. Hey, I never got to tell you what I found,” Steve said, describing what he found in the appointment book as Jessica quickly searched the rest of the office and came up empty-handed, same as Steve.

“Send me the photos,” she said as they went back to the elevator.  “I’ll see if I can track his movements for those times he was out of the office.”

“We should call Tony and tell him what we’ve found, right?”

Jessica raised an eyebrow.  “Can he be trusted to sit tight and not do anything stupid?”

“More than you can, I think,” Steve shot back, pointing to the barely-healed cut near her hairline.  “Besides, he should probably be prepared for whatever he’s going to find on the thumb drive.  If we are going to build a case against Stane we’re going to have to share information.”

“Fine,” Jessica said with a shrug.  “Tell him.  But if he runs his mouth and let’s Stane know we’re on to him, I’m not going to feel bad if he gets murdered.”

 ***

“You scheming, meddling little _shithead,_ ” Stane’s voice growled behind him. 

Steve had been so absorbed in his painting that he hadn’t even noticed the door opening behind him; he forced himself to calmly dip his brush into the cup of mineral spirits to clean it off, even though his body was suddenly vibrating with adrenaline.   “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he said as he turned to face Stane, proud of how level his voice was.

“All of this bullshit started with _you_.” All this time, Steve had been rolling his eyes at how Stane never deigned to notice him; well, Stane was certainly paying attention to him now, his narrow-eyed glare trying to flay the skin off him and his huge hands clenched into intimidating fists at his side.  As he stalked forward, Steve grabbed his pallet knife and the cup of paint thinner and stood, chin raised in the face of Stane’s rage.  “Tony’s not here for me to wring his scrawny neck for this, but _you-_ ”  Stane lunged and Steve tossed the paint thinner into his face, dodging to the side as Stane yelled and swung blindly.  He yanked open the office door and started sprinting towards the exit, dismayed that the rest of the floor was deserted. As he raced passed the wall of windows that lined the hallway, he realized the sun had already set. 

“Steve!” Steve tried to stop at the sound of his name, skidding and bouncing off a wall.  Across the room he saw Tony waving at him from his personal elevator.  First, he felt a wave of gratitude that he wasn’t alone, but when he heard Stane roaring curses behind him he got scared and angry.

“What the hell are you doing here, Tony?” Steve shouted as he sprinted to the elevator.

“We finally got the goods on Obie,” Tony said, pulling Steve into a relieved hug. “Agents are at his house, seizing everything but he wasn’t there.  They are coming here next, but I suspected Stane was still here so I-”

“Came by yourself?” Steve said in disbelief, pulling back from the hug.  “You had a bunch of federal agents with you and you decided to leave them behind and throw yourself right at the man trying to kill you?”  His voice was rising until he was yelling by the end of his sentence.  

“I knew you were still here!” Tony shouted right back.  “Jarvis said you hadn’t left yet, and I didn’t know what Stane would do when he found out ICE was looking for him.”

“Well, if you thought ‘lash out at the closest target,’ then you were right.” As the elevator doors started to close Steve had a sudden thought and stuck his hand out.  “We can’t let him escape,” he said. The floor had gone unnervingly silent; neither one of them liked not knowing where Stane was. “If the special agents aren’t here yet, he could flee the country or something.”

“They’ve got a freeze on all of his accounts and his passports, he won’t get far,” Tony argued.  “You were right the first time, we should get the hell out of here and let the government do its job.”

“The government not doing its job is why we are in this situation in the first place.” Steve set his jaw, trying to think.  “Can Jarvis shut down the elevators?”

“Yeah, of course.  Jarvis, turn off all the elevators except my private elevator, even if they are occupied.”

“Yes, sir,” the AI said obligingly.

“Maybe if he has to go down 14 flights of stairs the feds will have time to catch him.” Steve cautiously stuck his head out the elevator door, looking for Stane.  He was torn between doing the smart thing, which was getting the hell out of there, or doing the right thing, which was making sure that Stane was going to be held accountable for his crimes.

“What do you think he’s doing now?” Tony said quietly. 

"If he-"

“Tony, you meddling little brat,” Stane growled, his huge form suddenly blocking the elevator.  Steve and Tony both jumped and backed away.  “I hope you know that if I do go down, I’m not going down alone.  Do you really think they’re going to believe that I did all this without you noticing? Without Howard knowing?  When all of this is done, the Stark name is going to be worthless.”

“You’re a fucking liar, Stane," Tony snarled.  "You know goddamn well that neither me nor my father would condone selling weapons to America’s enemies.”  

“Howard never really did have the balls to really succeed in this business.  Stark men are so weak,” Stane said with a curl of his lip. His eyes were red-rimmed and the contempt in them was cold and hard.  “You are even worse than him, and that’s pretty pathetic.”

“You don’t get to talk about my father, Stane,” Tony said, voice rising.  He took a step towards Stane. “All these years, pretending to be their _friend-_ ”

“Tony,” Steve said warningly, trying to hold him back and away from Stane.  He was getting a bad feeling about this, the way Stane was just standing there as if waiting for something.

“Did you know how embarrassed Howard was to have a son like you? The drugs, the parties, the constant parade of men and women out of your bed.  I don’t blame him for drinking.  Your mother, though.” Stane sneered and shook his head. “She whined so much about it, as if I gave a damn-”

Steve felt Tony’s muscles get tight when Stane mentioned his mom, but then he lunged so quickly at Stane that Steve lost his grip.  “Tony, no, don’t!”

But it was too late, Tony was already throwing himself at Stane.   Even as Tony landed a punch on his jaw, Stane was laughing; Tony hit him two more times, then Stane dodged the next swing and his hand was around Tony’s throat, pinning him against the wall.  Tony’s face started turning red, hands scrabbling to break Stane’s grip. “And for someone who claims to be a genius, you can be _so stupid."_

 _"Fuck-you-"_ Tony managed, trying to kick out and failing 

"Looks like I finally get to kill you, with my bare hands, no less," Stane said with satisfaction, "and get to call it self-defense."

“Get your hands off him, asshole!” Steve shouted and drove his palette knife into the Stane’s forearm with both hands; the knife was dull, but Steve was motivated so it penetrated all the way to the handle. With a roar of pain Stane let go of Tony to backhand Steve, sending him reeling into a desk.  Coughing madly and struggling for air, Tony shoved Stane while he was off balance, sending him to the floor, and pulled Steve towards the stairs. “You’re not getting away that easily!” Stane shouted as they ran, scrambling to his feet. He pulled the palatte knife out of his arm and it clattered to the ground with a bright spatter of blood.

They were almost to the stairs when the door to the stairwell slammed open, making a dent in the wall behind it. Jessica leaned against the door frame, breathing heavily.  “What – _asshole_ – fucked up – the elevators?” She panted, hand pressed against the stitch in her side.

“Thank God! You got my call!” Tony tried to push her back into the stairwell but she wouldn’t budge.  Her eyes went over Steve’s shoulder to look at Stane, who was stalking towards them, one hand on the wound on his arm.

“Aww, did someone lose their temper because they are finally being held accountable for their actions? As a rich old white guy, that must really suck,” Jessica drawled, pushing Steve and Tony to stand behind her.

“Who the hell is this bitch?”  Stane curled his lip.

“Call me a bitch one more time,” Jessica said, voice low and dangerous.  Steve and Tony both took a couple of steps backwards at the tone in her voice.  

Stane just looked her up and down and sneered again.  “Out of the way, little girl-” And that was all he got out before Jessica punched him.  He shook his head and staggered backwards, stunned.  Before he could recover Jessica hit him again, and his collapse seemed to take forever as he dropped to one knee then sprawled bonelessly on the floor.

“Just as bad,” Jessica said, shaking her hand out and massaging her knuckles.  Steve and Tony were staring at her speechlessly, then the sound of dozens of feet stomping on the stairs behind them made them turn.

“You’re finally here,” Steve scowled as they all put their hands up, special agents swarming around them.   “Took you long enough.”


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the evening was chaos; the federal agents were there for hours, even after they took Stane into custody, and Tony had to stay until they were done and Steve was determined to stay until Tony was done.  Unsurprisingly, Jessica had already vanished; Steve assumed she had given the agents a statement before leaving, but who really knew.  So here they were, sitting in the back of an ambulance, Tony with an ice pack on his bruised throat and Steve with a thin space-age blanket around his shoulders, more for show than anything else.    

“He destroyed your painting, you know,” Tony croaked, after they had sat in silence for a while, watching the circus.  His voice was getting increasingly thin and reedy as his abused neck started swelling, bruises blooming on his skin.  The flashing lights had attracted spectators, but as the evening went on and all the agents brought out were file folders, they eventually wandered off.  The press was a recent addition to the scene, shouting for comments and trying to get interviews, but so far Tony refused to even so much as look in their direction.

“Yeah, I saw,” Steve sighed.  The agents had allowed him to get his personal satchel, after searching it first, of course, and Steve had seen the gaping hole in the center.  “At least he didn’t get the other one.”  That one was finished, waiting for the lacquer to dry, but Steve had been reluctant to show it to Tony; if Steve was prone to honesty in his paintings, he had definitely put too much of his heart into that one.   If he was already redoing one painting, he should probably also redo the other one and make it a little more detached.

“How long do you think it will take you to finish?”  Tony asked, fiddling with his ice pack and studiously not looking in Steve’s direction.

“Not too long,” Steve said cautiously. “Why?”  Was Tony trying to get rid of him? Because as soon as the paintings were done, they wouldn’t have any reason to spend time together, and Steve may or may not have been drawing out this process as long as he thought could get away with.

“Because I can’t ask you out on a date until you’re done.”

Steve blinked, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “ _What?_ ”

“I mean, if you want me to, if that’s okay,” Tony said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Steve said, turning to face Tony.  “Of course it’s okay, it’s more than okay.  But why do you have to wait?”

“Because it would be six kinds of sexual harassment if I didn’t," Tony said as if pointing out the obvious.  "And I don’t want to give anyone any reason to question your professionalism.”

Steve stared at Tony, feeling a warm wave of affection squeeze his heart. “So all this time you’ve been waiting to make a move because you were, what, trying to protect my reputation?” Steve said, trying and failing to smother a smile.

The flashing red and blue lights couldn’t hide the fact that Tony was blushing. “Well, yeah, I mean…the gossip rags always jump all over me whenever I'm seen with someone, so-”

“No, no, I get it.  It’s very sweet.”  Steve’s grin widened at Tony’s embarrassed scowl.  “I will finish the painting by the end of the week, then.  Come by my place on Saturday for our date.”  While Tony sat there for a moment, looking stunned, then very pleased, Steve reached out and squeezed Tony’s knee, then sat on his hands so they wouldn’t wander. _Saturday_ , he promised himself.

 

That Saturday, Tony spent _way_ too much time at the flower store trying to pick out a bouquet.  After the first thirty minutes of deliberating, the florist had politely invited him to pick the flowers he wanted in a bouquet if none of the premade ones were to his taste.  Tony proceeded to spend another hour googling all of the flowers in the store, trying to find the ones that were least likely to aggravate someone’s allergies, because he didn’t know if Steve was allergic to pollen but that would be a terrible way to start off a date.   Finally he found some that he liked and the florist, who’s politely interested smile hadn’t wavered a bit despite all of his questions, made it look nice and put a pretty ribbon around it.   Judging from the stunned look on her face as he left with the bouquet, Tony may have over-tipped a bit in his nervousness, but Tony refused to feel self-conscious about it because he was already feeling self-conscious enough about everything else.

With a deep breath, he ran a hand over his hair and looked at himself one last time in the rear view mirror before stepping out of the safety of the vehicle and braving Steve's apartment building.  When he got to the door he only let himself pause for a few moments to see if his heart would stop racing before he forced himself to knock, refusing to give himself any more time to overthink this date than he already had. "Hello, handsome," he said without thinking when Steve opened the door wearing a deep blue shirt and bit of eyeliner.

"Hello yourself," Steve said with a smirk, his appreciative gaze traveling over Tony.  When his eyes landed on the flowers, Tony held them out before his mouth could get him into any more trouble.  “Flowers!” Steve said as he took the bouquet and sniffed one of the blossoms. “Um, thank you.”

Tony felt a stab of anxiety. “Why are you surprised? This is a date, right?”  He knew he hadn’t forgotten what Steve had said, but maybe he’d hallucinated the whole encounter? Trauma did that, right?  Was Steve dressed up for some other reason than-

“Of course it’s a date,” Steve said with a smile, stepping back to let Tony inside.  When Tony lingered near the door, unsure what to do with himself, Steve set the flowers down on the kitchen counter and took Tony’s hand to pull him closer. “It’s just…you don’t have to try to impress me anymore, Tony.  I already like you,” he said softly.

Tony’s breath caught when Steve looked up at him through his lashes.   “I’ve never really dated anyone before,” he blurted, and felt his ears get hot when Steve’s eyebrows shot up.

“You mean you’re a-”

“No, I’ve had sex before,” Tony said quickly. “I mean, not as much as the tabloids have said I did, but yeah.  I was already in college when I was 18, and then it was pretty clear that most people were more interested in what I had rather than who I was, so…” He shrugged and ran his hand over the back of his neck, looking down at where Steve’s long, artist’s hands were cradling his own.  “For a long time, Rhodey seemed to be the only person who really saw me.”

“Oh, Tony.” Steve pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and pulled him over to the corner of the living room, where a pair of thin boxes were stacked against the wall.  Steve ripped the tape off of one and hesitated only the barest moment before he pulled the canvas out and held it up for Tony to see. 

Tony’s throat closed up and he was speechless as he stared at Steve’s painting.  In it, Tony was standing in his lab, chin up and shoulders squared as he looked out at the viewer.   He was wearing a suit with one hand in his pocket and the other holding an orb of blue light, which Tony recognized as the arc reactor he’d been toying around with months ago.  A slightly raised eyebrow and the suggestion of a smile kept the pose from looking arrogant; instead, he looked like he was inviting everyone in on the joke.  

Tony swallowed thickly.  The man in the painting was self-assured and secure in his place in the world, capable and wise and funny, and Tony felt like he was _none_ of those things.  “Holy shit, Steve,” he murmured, reaching out careful fingers towards the painting like it was a talisman that could make him become the man inside it.

“This is how I see you,” Steve said.  “I might have gotten a bit carried away because I, um…” he cleared his throat. “Like you a lot.” 

“You are amazing.” Tony took the painting from Steve and with one last look, set it to the side.  He cupped his hands around Steve’s face and said, “For the record, I like you a lot, too.”

Steve smiled and covered one of Tony’s hands with his own.  “You know, now would be a great time to kiss me."

Tony’s eyes dropped to Steve’s mouth.  He ran a thumb over the smooth fullness of his bottom lip, blood singing through his veins when Steve’s tongue darted out to taste his skin. Leaning down, he tilted Steve’s chin up slightly and brushed his mouth over Steve’s, the most chaste kiss imaginable. He licked his lips and tilted his head to do it again from the other direction but with more pressure, letting his lips drag against Steve’s, breath gusting warmly across his skin.  He saw with satisfaction that Steve’s eyes had closed and for once, he was waiting patiently to see what Tony would do instead of charging in to take the lead.  That more than anything else made the knot of heat at the base of his spine burn hotter; he wanted to lay Steve down and take him apart so he could see all that barely contained energy and passion explode.  With a sound deep in his chest he slotted his mouth over Steve’s and curled his tongue inside, chasing the taste of him.  Steve groaned and leaned up into the kiss, his hands coming down to Tony’s hips to pull him closer.  Tony’s heart skipped a beat when he felt how hard Steve was already, and for a bright, white hot moment he wanted to pin Steve against the wall and shove his hand down his pants and feel that hardness first hand. 

But no.  He had promised himself he would do this right, this time. Not that they really needed any more time to get to know each other, but Tony had _plans._  So he gentled the kiss, smiling against Steve’s mouth when he made a disgruntled sound, and took a step back.  “First things first,” he murmured, unable to stop smiling as Steve chased his mouth for another kiss. “I have reservations for dinner and a show.”

“Then back here?” Steve said, suggestively rolling his hips against Tony’s and tucking his fingers into the waistband of Tony’s pants.

“Then I thought I’d take you back to my suite at the Tower.”  Tony’s hands were still cradling Steve’s face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.  

Steve looked skeptical.  “Like, a real set of rooms with a bed and everything? Not that sad little cot in your lab?”

“Yes, a real set of rooms with a giant tub and a two person shower and a bed big enough to do cartwheels in,” Tony said with a smile.  “I never really liked it much because it was so big that it felt lonely.”

“You know, only the promise of seeing this almost mythical suite is keeping me from seducing you into my bed right now,” Steve said with a sigh. His hands came up to more sedately rest on Tony’s waist.  “Let me put my flowers in water then we should go out in public before I change my mind.”

Tony grinned so hard his cheeks hurt and kissed Steve one more time before taking a step back. “I’ll behave,” he promised.  “I’ll be on my best behavior. For now.”


End file.
